


your two shoes sitting in the bathtub

by scenedenial



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, California, Drawn out slice of life basically, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Liz knows abt Timmy and is 100 a-ok with it, Love, M/M, Nervous timmy, Sex, Swimming, Talking, Vacation, armie’s family, bcus I’m never ever gonna write Armie going behind her back, boys weekend on the coast, handjobs, porn yknow how it is, probably some rope/toy stuff we’ll see, smoking weed, they go to the beach!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-27 08:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scenedenial/pseuds/scenedenial
Summary: “Hey.” Armie says, pushing dark hair off Timothée’s forehead. “Hey.” Both palms cupped around his European face, thumbs tracing over his jaw. Timothée’s lips part. The light from the side-table lamp catches in his teeth. “Hey.” Armie drags a finger over that plush mouth, pushes it between his lips when Timothée sighs and gives in, drops his jaw. “It’s alright.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is.....supposed to be a multi chapter thing even though I’m Notoriously horrible at updating things,, bear with me!!
> 
> Title is from vampire weekend’s super lovely gay song “diplomat’s son”
> 
> As always: this is fiction fiction fiction

_You look tired_ , is the first thing Armie says to him after they hug long and tight in the airport terminal with the headphones around Timmy’s neck crushed between them. It’s probably the wrong thing to say, too, but Timothée smiles and leans his head into Armie’s shoulder and says _I am_ , and as they wait at the conveyor belt for Timmy’s suitcase to come around he finds Armie’s side and leans heavy on it. Armie buys him a coffee at the Starbucks on the way out. Timothée pours a river of cream into it but doesn’t touch the sugar and gasps a little when they step outside and the LA skyline is all painted with watery vermillion. 

Their chatter in the Uber is idle, stops and starts in the middle of sentences and thoughts. Timmy stares out the window with one hand loose on Armie’s thigh, finger tapping out a disjointed rhythm. 

“What’s up?” Armie asks him, and it’s a substitute for, maybe, _are you okay_ because there’s only so many times he can ask that. Timothée almost startles, like he’d been zoned out or half-asleep, snaps his gaze over to Armie quick. 

“Nothing.” His voice is deep and tired and sweet. “I’m just glad to be here.”

The Uber goes about a block past the house, probably would have gone further if Armie hadn’t finally glanced away from Timmy’s luridly lovely profile and hailed it to a harried stop. They walk back in the dusky-warm evening (Timothée wondering aloud at the stark contrast to his hometown winters back east) with Armie swinging the suitcase in his left hand (light, as if Timmy’s barely got anything in there). The silhouette of the house stands out tall against the sprawl of the sky. Timmy sighs and scratches at his face, the back of his neck, with a ragged-nailed hand. _You nervous?_ Armie asks, trying to mold his words to the gentility he feels.

“No.” Timmy murmurs, meaning yes, meaning _I don’t think I can say it but I know you know me well enough to know that I know that you know how it really is._ Armie takes his hand and squeezes.

“It’s okay.” It’s an empty reassurance, he knows, but Timothée flashes him a tight-lipped smile nonetheless. “You know she’s okay with it.”

“Yeah, but...” He trails off, and the _but_ carries the weight of a thousand different anxieties and worried voicemails and sleepless nights. Armie cups Timmy’s face in the palm of his hand. 

“One night, yeah? One night and then it’s just us.” Timmy nods, slouching cardigan slipping off one his waif-thin shoulders. Armie hikes it back up, resists the urge to kiss him in public though the thumb that’s caressing his jawbone is as incriminating as anything. “You ready?”

Timothée sets his fragile bones (he’s not, actually—fragile, that is—but Armie still touches him as if he’s breakable) and takes the stairs to he front door two at a time. 

 

Liz does truly love him. Armie walks out of the shower later that evening, still toweling his hair, to find Timothée perched on the counter with a glass of rosé in his pretty hands and his laugh echoing out over the granite countertops. She’s standing at the stove, whisking something in a glass bowl. They both peal into giggles when Armie walks into the room, but he doesn’t mind being the butt of the joke if it means the ones he loves can be here in his line of vision at the same time. 

Elizabeth feeds Timmy like it’s her job (her job isn’t far from it) each and every time he visits, sitting him down in the kitchen and loading him up with more baked goods than Armie thinks can fit inside his tiny frame. Muffins (poppyseed, apple-bourbon, raspberry with lemon curd), cakes (upside-down cake with pear instead of pineapple, because pineapple makes Timmy’s tongue swell up), custards, breads, loaves, puddings, crumbles, pies. Heavy cream and brown sugar and butter by the stick. The last time Timmy had come out, a whole week back in July, he’d gained five pounds and Armie had been crazy over the new, subtle softness of his belly. This time, Elizabeth is rolling dough over a floured countertop, and Timothée is nibbling away at a cupcake for “testing” purposes. Really, Liz just thinks he’s too thin. It worries her. Armie too, only Armie’s seen Timothée _up close and personal_ for long enough now that he knows it’s mostly just how his lanky frame carries weight. 

“My dears.” Armie says to the both of them, folding an open palm over Timothée’s jean-clad knee. Timmy’s eyes on his are melting and red-rimmed with want of sleep. Liz turns from her worktop and smiles soft at the both of them. 

“When are you two taking off in the morning?”

“Eh, six or seven.” Armie says, just to have Timmy tug on his arms with a nervous whine of protest. “Nah. Eleven, I dunno.” 

“Good, so I can make Timmy breakfast.”

Later, Armie steps over a pile of Timothée’s clothes on the floor of the biggest guest bedroom, toothbrush in his mouth. Timmy is sitting up in the bed with bare knees pulled up to bare chest, bony fingers drumming out a rhythm on the slant of his shin. 

“I feel like I’m intruding.” He says, in a rush, dropping his head back against the headboard. The exposed line of his neck all dotted with moles turns Armie’s skin to gooseflesh. He shakes his head, darts back into the en-suite, spits, rinses, and darts back out. 

“You’re not. Seriously.” Armie sits down on the edge of the bed, pulls Timmy’s foot into his lap. A smile quirks the side of Timothée’s mouth up, and Armie loves this; the muddling of Armie/Oliver, Timmy/Elio, LA/Crema until it’s just skin on skin on hot mouths. “I promise.”

“This is your _house_ , man. Your fucking wedding photos on the walls. Your _kids_ are asleep upstairs.”

Armie shuffles out of his flannel pajama pants and climbs under the pressed, hospital-cornered sheets. Timmy’s skin is warm and cloying on Armie’s, damp when he slides his hands under bony knees and between hairy white thighs. 

“But _you’re_ right here.” Armie murmurs. Timmy sighs and shifts, facing Armie, breath minty and warm on his face. 

“What does Elizabeth say about me?”

Armie drapes a hand over Timothée’s jutting hip. 

“That you’re talented. And a lovely houseguest. Well, you know, aside from the pistachios.” Timmy snorts and pushes a fist into Armie’s chest. “And that she thinks you’re very smart. That she knows you make me happy.”

Armie will go over this as many times as Timothée needs him to.

“What do your kids think?”

“Tim, they’re four and two.” 

“What _will_ they think?” Timothée’s face is scrunched up hard. 

“Whatever we tell them. We’ll figure it out when the time comes. Okay?”

Timmy nods, unconvinced and unconvincing. 

“Hey.” Armie says, pushing dark hair off Timothée’s forehead. “Hey.” Both palms cupped around his European face, thumbs tracing over his jaw. Timothée’s lips part. The light from the side-table lamp catches in his teeth. “ _Hey._ ” Armie drags a finger over that plush mouth, pushes it between his lips when Timothée sighs and gives in, drops his jaw. “It’s alright.”

“Yeah?” Timothée asks, voice muffled around the digit in his mouth. 

“Yeah.” Armie sighs. 

“You’re ridiculous.” Timmy mutters as Armie trails the wet finger down his chin, tilting his face up so that his curls glint golden in the light. 

“Uh huh.” Armie kisses him, and it’s unfair, really, that he’s only known that feeling for three years of his life. Sometimes most everything that came before Timothée feels like bided time. 

“Can we do this here?” Timothée (ever courteous, ever aware of how his actions affect others) murmurs when they break apart for air. 

“I seem to remember doing a lot more than this here.” Armie replies, just to see Timmy blush. He pinches at the delicate skin under Timmy’s armpit to watch him shriek and wriggle away. 

“I hate you.” He says, a laugh caught in his voice. Timothée hates socks with holes in them. He hates having his eyebrows threaded. He hates public gyms and leaving voicemails. He hates swallowing pills. 

“No you don’t.” Armie pulls him back against his chest. 

“No I don’t.” Timothée darts in again, dry lips brushing over Armie’s temple. “But I am tired.”

“Sure.” Armie says, dropping his head into the crook of skin between Timothée’s neck and shoulder. “We’ve got the weekend anyways.” 

Timmy is asleep—mouth open, snoring soft—before Armie even switches off the light. 

 

The goodbyes are a drawn out affair that Timmy is a shockingly good sport for (or maybe, unprecedentedly, he just doesn’t mind standing around in the kitchen with Ford tugging at his hair and Elizabeth shoving espressos and multitudes of still-warm croissants on him). 

“Stop, Liz, you’re gonna make him need to stop and pee every five miles.” Timmy groans at him, and Harper devolves into hysterics. 

“It’s fine, Armie.” Timmy’s voice sounds a little bitten-off and Armie realizes he just wants to make a good impression (yet again) on Armie’s family. He shuts up. “Liz,” Timmy turns his attention to her as she stoops to wrestle a spatula out of Harper’s hands, “thank you so much for having me.”

“Timothée.” She says, standing up again and brushing her hands over her apron. Armie loves her. He loves the way she makes everyone around her feel loved. “Always, okay? Literally always.” They hug, Ford mashed and squealing between them. 

“You’re too good to me.” Timmy says, and there’s a joking lilt in his voice but his eyes look ever-so-slightly glassy. 

“Timmy-y-y-y.” Harper yelps out, and he leans down laughing and hauls her up into his free arm. 

Watching him like that, both his kids on those little hips, makes Armie’s chest ache hard. Liz snaps a photo, almost swooning over the little tableau. Timmy laughs, eyes crinkling, and ducks his head down. 

“We should probably get going.” Armie interjects. Because, yeah, they _should_ , and because there’s a pang of jealously radiating out under his ribs, an irrational desire to tuck Timmy in his pocket and keep him for himself always. 

Timothée kisses both of the kids on their foreheads, accepts Harper’s sticky little hands on his cheeks as he returns the favor. He hugs Elizabeth once more, long and tight, and she and Armie kiss, and then they’re out the door.

“I love your family.” Timmy says once he’s cranked the heated-seat feature up as high as it’ll go and kicked off his shoes in the passenger seat. Armie rolls down the window, letting the still-cool morning air slip over his hand as he makes a left-hand turn at the end of the street. 

“They love you.” Armie replies, and for once Timmy doesn’t argue with it. 

Timmy takes over the aux cord and plays a slapdash mix of old and new rap music, much of it stuff that Armie remembers from his pre-teen years when Timothée was in diapers. God, _fuck_ , he’s old. They eat peanut butter pretzels from the bag and pass a pint of orange juice back and forth before Timothée decides he really fucking needs a piss and they pull over at a 7-11.

Timmy lopes back out to the car with the tie on his gray sweatpants undone and assorted boxes of candy in his arms. He tosses Armie a share sized container of Good-and-Plenty’s _(“fuck, Armie, that’s literally the worst candy in the world”)_ and sets a metallic slip on the dashboard as he fastens his seatbelt. 

“You bought a scratcher?” Armie laughs, reaches over and puts a hand on his thigh. 

“Uh huh.” Timmy replies, rooting through his backpack that sits between his feet. He comes up, triumphant, with a nail file.

“You know you can just use your actual nail, right?” Timmy looks at Armie like he suggested that they go back into the 7-11 and buy some, like, sushi. “Or not.”

Timothée sticks his tongue between his teeth as he scratches off the ticket, focused, sweet. Armie grins out the windshield as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Holy fuck!” Timothée shouts, and Armie almost swerves the car.

“What?!”

“I won two dollars!” Armie stares over at him, incredulous, for a long moment, before they both break up into hysterical peals of laughter. 

 

The hotel room is plush and posh, all thick white carpeting and a giant king bed that Timmy throws himself onto with a deep sigh of contentment the second they walk in. 

“You know,” he says as Armie stands in the bathroom, surveying the tiny soaps and lotions, “I was, like, fourteen before I ever stayed in a hotel.”

“Really?” Armie asks, stepping back out of the bathroom. Timothée is laying with his back on the bed, arms stretched out above his head. His eyes are closed, face easy and blissful. 

“Uh huh. I mean, it’s not like we didn’t travel, but it was always France we were going to.” Armie’s heard about those summers in the countryside, seen the photos of short-haired, spare-toothed Timmy in green meadows with a giant sun hat shading his face. 

“Will you take me to that town someday?” Armie asks, feeling bold and soft and nervous. Timothée pushes up on his elbows, smiles. 

“The one I stayed in?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes. I’d love that.” Timothée throws that word around more than almost anyone Armie has met—movies and food and rain on windows and the clothes someone on the street in New York is wearing. Music and ideas and feelings. _I love that_. 

Armie collapses next to him on the bed, doesn’t even give Timmy time to sit up before he’s pulled him into his arms.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come _on_ , old man.” Is what Armie wakes up to, Timmy tugging at his leg, fingers cold on his ankle. He’s laying face down in the giant bed, shirt off and shorts on. When he turns his head and cracks an eye, Timmy is there, bouncing around in a pair of swim trunks and flip flops. “We’re going to the beach.”

“Oh, are we?” 

“ _Yes._ ” Timothée insists, as if Armie could ever say no to him. His chest is bony and thin and Armie notes a mouth-shaped bruise over his left nipple with satisfaction. He rolls over and catches Timothée’s wrists in his own hands. Pulls him down till he’s leaning over Armie on the bed and cranes up to tongue at Timmy’s neck.

“Is that what we’re doing _right_ now?” Armie asks, still holding Timothée by the wrists, still admiring the way his cheeks go pink and how he worries at his bottom lip with his top teeth. 

Timmy softens. Armie pulls him onto the bed and he kneels there, at the foot of it, legs tucked up underneath himself. 

Armie pushes himself up on his elbows. Looks Timothée in the eye. Spreads his own legs. 

Something Armie noticed about Timothée the very first time they spoke: he is _gentle_. He is taller than many people (not taller than Armie, but taller than many), and when he speaks to them, he softens his shoulders, crooks his head down. He makes anyone speaking to him feel like an equal, like they exist within a bubble with only him, like his attention has never been and could never be elsewhere. His voice carries on camera or in interviews, but in conversation it is rasping and soft. He has the long-limbed clumsiness of a growing child but his hands are strong and reassuring on a back or an arm. He is gentle, gentle, and Armie is pliant and melting and utterly safe with him, underneath him. Armie spreads his legs. 

“Oh,” Timmy murmurs, looking sweet and young in his blue and red trunks, his hands folded on his thighs, “Armie.”

Timothée puts his hand on Armie’s dick. It’s not the movie grab, all insolent abandon; this is deliberate and soft and almost nervous. 

“Oh, you.” Armie looks into his face and is in love with him. Timothée untangles his long long legs and crawls up over Armie’s body. 

“You know what I think?” Timothée says, hands dancing at the waistband of Armie’s shorts.

“What?”

“I think the beach can wait.”

It does (wait, that is), is still there and still glorious when Armie swallows the last of Timmy’s cum and stands, naked, to pull the door to the balcony open and let the sunset come crashing into the room. 

Timothée, nude and limp in bed and swathed with golden light, looks like a Greek god. The sun god, specifically, whose name Armie forgets (because he’s stupid for the boy in his bed) and which he asks Timothée for. Timothée, who knows that, who knows everything, who laughs and blushes in silky white sheets when he says _you’re such an idiot, Armie_.

Armie leaves the door open, likes the feel of the warm California wind against his still-sweaty skin. He crawls back onto the bed, holds himself up by his palms and knees over Timmy, and licks the salt and leftover spunk off his body with long swipes of his tongue. 

“C’mon.” He says when he’s done, when Timothée is clean and so blissed out that his eyes are shut and his head is lolling back into the pillows. “Now it’s beach time.”

There’s no one else there and Armie is glad for it, glad that the bruises blossoming on Timothée’s neck and chest and the pink scratches on his shoulders are for his eyes only. Glad that he can wrestle him down into the sand where it’s dry and soft and kiss him hard and slow, tongue on tongue. 

Timothée runs out into the waves and Armie follows him, heart full to bursting at the way he yells as the water crashes around him, at the exalted look on his face, as if shutters have been thrown open behind his eyes. Armie catches him around the waist in the saltwater and they go under together. His eyes sting when he opens them to find Timmy’s face; he swallows brine when Timothée’s tongue slips between his lips. 

They swim out to the place beyond where the waves break and bob up and down as they swell, Timothée’s legs wrapped round Armie’s waist. The night is darkening fast, the buildings in the distance nothing but silhouettes against a deep sky. 

“I used to be afraid of the ocean.” Timothée says above the roar of all that water, all the millions of tons of it that surge and whirl around them. “Like, really afraid.”

Armie drops a kiss to his temple, loving him, loving when he learns something new and can file it away in the too-big portion of his brain dedicated to _Timmy Timmy Timmy_.

“But you’re not anymore? What happened?”

“You were here with me.”

Armie could cry at that, he really could. Instead, he kisses Timothée again.

“What else are you afraid of?”

“You know, like, all of it.”

“Oh, uh huh, like spiders.” A kiss to his salty, cool shoulder. “And thunder.” Lips against wet hair. “And not making anything of yourself. You can rule that one out permanently now, though.”

“I dunno.” Timothée says because he’s so modest that it hurts Armie sometimes, that he wants to grab Timmy by the shoulders and shake him and make him see himself how Armie sees him. There’s a beat of soft silence during which Armie notices that Timothée is pale enough to almost glow in the nearly-gone light, as if he’s emanating his own sun from inside himself. 

“I’m afraid of losing you.” Timothée says, then, voice small and cracking. 

“Oh,” Armie mutters, chest hurting, hand flying up to cup at the side of Timothée’s face, “come on. Don’t be dumb, okay? You could never and I mean that. I’m here, and I’m staying.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” 

What Armie doesn’t say, as he rocks Timothée in his arms in the Pacific Ocean, is that he’s pretty damn sure that the likelihood of Timmy getting tired of him is way, way higher than him getting tired of Timmy. He doesn’t say that that’s his worst fucking fear too. 

Armie calls room service when they’re back and dried off and Timothée is wearing his hoodie that’s about four sizes too big on him. He’s laying in the center of the bed, tapping buttons on the remote and flicking though channels. Armie thumbs through the menu and guesses what he’ll land on: he’d reckon it’s between _Say Yes To the Dress_ and _The Bachelor_. Armie laughs to himself when he hears a woman’s high pitched voice on screen: _no, I can’t stand the lace_.

He orders too much, and they spread it out on the foot of the bed and stuff themselves while the mother of the episode’s most irritating bride has a meltdown in the waiting room. Timothée dribbles ketchup down his chin and Armie swipes it off with a finger. They drink the champagne from the bottle and Timmy lets Armie eat two thirds of the creme brûlée. They leave a cheeseburger and a salad almost entirely untouched, and Timothée carries the dishes over to the little mini fridge for later. He still hasn’t lost the hungry, scrappy intuition to save and keep and stretch, and Armie loves him for it. 

Timothée is a lightweight, and Armie undresses him to get him into the bathtub. Timothée is a lightweight, and pulls at the hair over Armie’s ears with bleary, contented eyes as he sits in the hot water and Armie kneels on the tile next to him. Armie feels the champagne too, feels the liquid warmth of the bubbles that went right to his head, but he has a fair amount of pounds on Timothée and can keep his feet on the ground for longer. 

“Get in.” Timothée murmurs. And Armie does, because he can’t say no to him, because he doesn’t _want_ to say no to him. He strips quickly and unceremoniously and slides into the bathtub facing Timmy, so their legs intertwine in the middle. 

“I love you.” Armie says, for no reason, for every reason. His palm finds Timothée’s shin. 

“I love you.” Timothée says, sounding like he really truly wants Armie to believe it, like he’s putting force behind the words. Timmy tipsy is a sight to behold; his cheeks get pinker, his bottom lip hangs down, and his hands roam lazy across Armie’s thighs. 

Silence. Hands wander. The air in the room thickens with something that feels like anticipation.

“Are you hard?” Armie whispers. Because he likes making Timmy talk about it, even when he could reach out and find for himself. Because he likes when Timmy blushes. 

“Yeah.” Timothée’s hand finds Armie’s under the bubbles, guides it to between his legs. “Yeah.”

Something about feeling him, stiff in Armie’s palm, when he can’t see it makes heat pool in Armie’s lower belly. Timothée sighs at the touch. 

“Will you?” Timothée asks, and it’s Armie’s turn to stammer out a _yeah_. He relies on muscle memory as he works his hand over that cock, relies on the way Timmy’s face screws up and his shoulders tense. 

He remembers the first time he touched Timothée like this. They were in a bathroom stall. Timothée was wearing Prada and bracing himself with one hand on the wall and one hand on Armie’s chest. Armie had thought about how sweet and pretty he looked and about how different yet familiar it was to touch a cock that was not your own. 

Armie jerks Timmy off until he’s quivering and swearing at a steady, high-pitched pace, then pulls his hand off. Timothée’s head snaps up and he looks indignant, confused, almost weak with need. It makes Armie want to fuck into him right then and there. 

“You can’t come in the bath. That’s gross.” Armie offers as a sympathetic explanation, tucking a lock of Timothée’s hair behind his ear. 

“Oh, so _that’s_ what’s gross to you?” Timothée splashes water into Armie’s face; Armie laughs at him. 

“Here, listen. I’ll wash your hair and then I’ll fuck you on the counter.” Timothée’s jaw goes slack at that—success. “How’s that sound?”

“ _Fine._ ” Timothée says. “That sounds fine.”

It’s more than fine, though, when Timothée’s damp head falls back against the fogged up mirror as Armie pushes his thighs apart. It’s more than fine when Timothée holds the base of Armie’s cock, hands almost trembling with how fucking ready he is, as Armie slicks lube over it. It’s way more than fine when Timmy grabs at the back of Armie’s neck and hisses into his ear: _I swear to fucking god, Hammer, if you don’t put your cock inside me right this fucking second I‘ll get that dildo that’s in my bag and do it my fucking self_.

Needless to say, Armie puts his cock in him. 

It’s probably too fast, the first slick shove and push, but that’s how Timmy likes it and needs it, sometimes, this time. He bites down hard on Armie’s shoulder and Armie holds him around the ribs with one arm and fucks up into him, hips banging into the cold granite of the counter with every thrust. 

“Timmy,” he sighs, pushing one hand down on Timmy’s thin stomach because he likes to imagine that he could feel his dick right there, though the skin and muscle, “I could never get tired of you. Never, never.”

“Okay.” Timothée says, head on Armie’s shoulder, just taking and taking and taking it. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are u guys liking this?? I love u all for reading and taking the time to comment you’re too too sweet to me


End file.
